Every Year's Unique, Every Year's Unforgettable
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Every Year's Unique, Every Year's Unforgettable
Accursed snow, accursed winter. There was a lot about the holiday season to be thankful for and enjoy; the season itself was not among them. Not to Tempest, standing shivering and shaking on a train platform. Officer armor did little to protect against the cold anyhow. A blade? No problem. Temperatures so low wetting your lips ices them over? Might just as well be wearing nothing.
She was sure that anywhere else it’d be moderate and livable. But Canterlot was perched on the peak of the Unicorn Range. Milder summers for harsher winters. The city was built in anticipation of layers of ice and snow, with magic stones in the roads to prevent them from freezing over. Not much to be done over the thin, frigid air, however.
Tempest shivered, and her eyelids sagged. She wished the train, and her charge, would arrive, so she could quickly return to the warmth of the castle and deliver him onto the Princess’s lap. Then melt into a cup of fresh, steaming tea with the Captain and the Corporal. Tempest hummed at the thought of it. Delicious, warm, energizing tea to shake off the cold of winter and the exhaustion of work. She didn’t know why Princess Twilight asked her, and her specifically, to escort a guest to the castle, but standing out here, freezing from the horn to the hooves, was a rookie’s job.
Digging into a breast pocket, she found her pocket watch just as the whistle echoed through the range. A black pillar of smoke came twisting from around the mountain, and the whistle grew louder. Tempest was relieved; freedom was near.
The train came barreling up and around, intermittent screeches of the wheels braking on the track. The smoking, pastel beast skidded to a stop, with its hydraulics hissing and heaving out a sigh. Tempest stood straight as the conductor hopped off, followed by a tsunami of ponies bundled mostly into families. Hearth’s Warming was approaching fast.
Tempest looked and waited for her escortee. She was told it was going to be a changeling. It was…odd. Changelings had become nature-loving, and one coming to a city like Canterlot was unprecedented. King Thorax was the only one she had seen regularly in the city, during his diplomatic visits with Princess Twilight. Even those were few and far in between however.
But Thorax was not the ‘ling she was waiting for. He never took the train. Always instead flew himself here.
“Alright, out of the way, ponies!” came a voice from the passenger car to the right. Offended yelps and screams as ponies hurried down the steps and off the car. “I may not have fangs anymore, but I can still bite! Now move, I have places to be!”
More ponies flooded the platform in a rush, until a tall changeling, the color of a dark evergreen forest, stepped onto the platform. He stopped and looked around for something, or someone, as ponies still disembarking tried to step and squeeze around him.
Tempest trotted over to him, and he noticed her approaching.
“Good day,” she said. “Are you the changeling sent by King Thorax?”
“Last time I checked, I am a changeling. And I am here because of a pansy named Thorax.” The changeling looked Tempest up and down. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you? Last time I met a Royal Guard I kicked his flank.”
Tempest clenched her jaw, forcing her lips to not sneer and her eyes to not roll. “I’m First Lieutenant Tempest Shadow, Equestrian Royal Guard. I was assigned to escort you to the castle.”
“Pharynx.” Pharynx glanced at the spires of the castle towering over the city, and tilted his head. “Escort? I’m pretty sure I can find my way to the biggest house in the city.”
Tempest’s professionalism, however, couldn’t stop the shrug her shoulders made. “Her Majesty’s orders.”
“Does your Princess always send guards to escort guests?”
Tempest nodded. She wasn’t sure if Princess Twilight’s predecessors did, but Twilight herself did. She thought it would “build relationships.” Tempest simply saw it as a waste of a guard’s time.
She spun around stiffly. “We should be going. Her Majesty awaits us.”
Pharynx grunted an acknowledgement. His wings buzzed, hovering off the ground at Tempest’s own height, and he followed her off the train platform.
“I must say,” Tempest began. “It’s strange to see a changeling riding the rails.”
“My brother made me. Said it was good to be around normal ponies.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t have bothered otherwise.”
Tempest arched an eyebrow. “Brother?” Changelings had siblings?
“Thorax,” Pharynx replied. “He is my younger broodmate.”
“Ah. I didn’t think changelings placed much value in siblinghood.”
“We don’t…err, didn’t. To put it simply, things happened, things changed.”
They followed the street, into the dense part of the city. Crowds of ponies—and non-ponies—were huddled along the skirts of the road. Snowbanks kept the lines to the sidewalk. As they moved into a giant, round plaza, the crowds only thickened with their holiday hustle-and-bustle, all the while paying the changeling no mind whatsoever.
“If I’m to be frank,” Pharynx began, “it’s strange being back in Canterlot. Especially with less screaming and terror and chaos.”
Tempest chuckled and shook her head. “Don’t I know the feeling.”
“I wouldn’t know. Do you?”
“Uh…” Tempest furrowed her brow. “Yes, yes, I do.”
“Why didn’t you just say so then?”
“Heavens help me,” she muttered under her visible breath.
She and Pharynx cut through the crowds to the street directly across, which swirled up toward the castle. As she trotted, Tempest gave Pharynx a sideways glance. He wasn’t the most talkative pony, she noted. He didn’t smile, instead donning a straight, neutral expression. His eyes didn’t wonder as much as a tourist’s would. They were sharp, focused, and attentive. Like a guard’s. It was an astonishingly stark difference from his brother.
He did, however, take some glances at Tempest, until he finally spoke up.
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Tempest’s blood ran cold. If he knew her from somewhere, while she did not remember him, then it must’ve been during her time serving the Storm King. She didn’t think they ran across any changelings, but being masters of disguise made them almost indetectable.
“I…I don’t think so—”
“Ah, I know,” Pharynx declared, flying in front of the mare as she walked, “you were at Princess Twilight’s coronation, right? You were a table over.”
Oh, she thought. “Yes, I was,” she replied coolly. “I’m shocked you even remember that. It’s been two years.”
“We changelings are trained to have a good memory. Helped with the old ways.”
Canterlot Castle loomed over as they approached, and the crowds thinned out more the closer they came. Two guards stood like gargoyles by the entrance to the castle grounds, saluting to Tempest as she and Pharynx walked past them.
“How come they’re saluting you?” Pharynx asked.
“Because I am a First Lieutenant, their superior,” she said plaintively.
Pharynx snorted at the idea in a way that Tempest didn’t like. “Why not send some grunt to escort me?”
“It was Princess Twilight’s orders for me specifically.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why. I just know I’m late for tea.”
The pair circled the lifeless white gardens, finding on the west side a lone door guarded by a lone guard. His teeth were chattering, and his spear shivered in his hoof. As Tempest approached, the stallion raised his hoof up into a salute in jerky movements, as if the leg had frozen in place.
“Private Hilt,” Tempest addressed, “are you cold?”
“N-No, ma’am.”
Tempest tilted her head, looking at the private from both sides of his face, neck, and body. “Is that so? Then why are you shaking like a leaf in an autumn wind? And your face is redder than cherries!”
“N-No clue, ma’am!”
The boy was stubborn and brave—she’ll give him that much.
“How long have you been out here, Private?”
“Since d-dawn, ma’am!”
A brow was raised at that. “And no one has been out to relieve you in six hours?”
“Correct, ma’am!”
“Heavens…” Tempest grimaced. She made a note to have a talk with his commanding officer about that. “Alright, do you have the key with you?” The private nodded. “Good, because I am relieving you. Lock the door behind us, and fetch the griffon for the post. It’s about time he learns what it’s like standing in a Canterlot winter. After that, you’re off-duty for the rest of the day, and if your commander says anything, tell her to come to me. I’d be happy to talk about it.”
The private affirmed, the three hustled inside a large foyer. Warmth embraced them, and Tempest had to restrain a pleased sigh as the cold was locked away behind her by the private.
Private Hilt left in the direction of the stairs down to the barracks, in the guts of the castle. Tempest gestured her head toward the large, ivory stairs curving outward and then inward.
Pharynx asked, “Uhh, where are we headed?”
“Her Majesty.” Tempest glanced back at Pharynx with a tiny smirk. “Court isn’t in session, so there was only one place the Princess could be.”
They climbed the massive staircase, hoof-falls echoing against the mirror-like floors and walls of the castle foyer. As they reached the top, Tempest made a hard right onto a walkway to the large door of the library.
Ever since Twilight took the throne in Canterlot a couple years ago, she only made one addition to the castle structure—her own private study within the castle library. It was far in the back, between the theoretical magics section and the shelf dedicated to the history of the Two Sisters.
The library itself was empty, but way in the back were two guards posted outside Twilight’s study. The one to the left, another private she only had passing familiarity with, had his eyes closed, on the verge of the falling to the floor in a snooze. As she passed a shelf of fiction novels, Tempest picked up a harmless paperback with her magic. She had seen coloring books that were thicker. She held it over her head, and approaching the guards, brought it down on the back of the snoozing guard’s head.
The private awoke with a start. His grip on his spear tightened, until he saw a Lieutenant before him, holding out a book to him in her magic. “Glad you’re awake, private. Now you can put this back for me. Goes in the L’s, I believe.”
The private took it into a wing, grumbling, but Tempest ignored it. She nodded to the other private, who was saluting despite his attempt to hold in his own mirth, and opened the study door with her magic.
The best way to describe Twilight’s study is the way one would describe a bird’s nest. Except, instead of the scraps of being constructed from mud, twigs, and feathers, the Princess’s was made entirely of books. Books and paper. Many of them filled the shelves, sure, but just as many had been drawn or tossed from their perches. Thick, heavy tomes and incomplete scraps of notes, parchments and notebooks smeared with graphite or midnight-black ink. It was essentially, Tempest thought, as if that draconequus had been living here.
The Princess herself sat in the middle of the wake of the paper whirlwind, on a stool behind a desk. She had grown in the couple years since Tempest knew her. A thin yellow strip wormed its way into her mane, and Tempest swore it sparkled and rippled in an imaginary wind on occasion. A quill in her magic’s grip danced along a page on the desk, until it stopped.
“Tempest, there you are,” Twilight said. He rose from her seat, and Tempest stopped and bowed before the desk. “And Pharynx, hello. How are Thorax and the hive?”
“The hive is safe and peaceful. Thorax is…”
“The usual?”
“Yes.”
Twilight smiled at him. Wide and genuine. “So what’s this that Thorax mentioned in his letter? Something about inviting a guest for Hearth’s Warming festivities?”
“Correct,” Pharynx confirmed. He inhaled, but Tempest butted in.
“Pardon me, Princess, but am I relieved? I have some matters to attend to.”
Twilight shook her head. “Actually, Tempest, I would like you to stay. I have something else for you to do.”
Tempest exhaled through her nose. “Very well.”
Twilight looked at Pharynx. “Continue, please.”
“My brother wishes to invite a pony or ponies to the hive join us in our festivities. He said he would prefer someone outside your close group of friends. Someone who has never been to the hive.”
“Did he say why?”
“He believes there is still some…ill-will toward changelings, Princess. And as usual, he wanted to do something else ‘different’ and ‘unique’ this year.”
Twilight hummed. “I figured as much.” She cleared her throat, turning to the Lieutenant. “As for you, Tempest, I have this.” Her horn glowed, and one of the sheets of paper slid off the desk, presenting itself right before Tempest.
Tempest skimmed the document. She quirked a brow in Twilight’s direction. “Forced leave? For whom?”
“You,” Twilight replied. The document flew back to her, prostrating itself on the desk. “Put in by the Captain. He’s expressed some concern that you’re pushing yourself too hard, physically and mentally, and petitioned me with a recommendation of leave for you. All I have to do is sign it.”
Tempest scoffed at the idea. Twilight circled the desk, gracefully, almost like she was gliding across the floor. “I would love to sign it, Tempest, for I agree with the Captain. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve been working too hard for too long.” She stood in front of Tempest, only a couple steps away. Tempest remembered when she looked down on Twilight. Not anymore; they were now even in height, and it was obvious that Twilight was going to keep gaining inches on her.
“But…” Twilight looked Tempest up and down. Measuring her. “If I do, I also want you, as a personal favor, to join Pharynx and the changelings for Hearth’s Warming.”
Perhaps it wasn’t wise for Tempest to laugh in the face of a Princess like she did, but sometimes you can’t help it. Especially when you’ve been friends long enough to know to not take it personally.
“You’re serious? Not only are you forcing me to go on vacation, but you’re asking to stay with the changelings? With all due respect, Princess, that’s priceless.”
Twilight glared. “So you’re declining?”
“Of course, Your Highness!”
“Very well, then I’ll have to sign this.” Twilight’s horn lit up, and the other paper appeared between her and Tempest. “Orders for you to be temporarily stationed for one week with the changelings. Effectively immediately. All I have to do is sign it, and you’ll be accompanying Pharynx back to the hive.” Twilight’s mouth twisted into a grin. “So what should I tell the Corporal about why you’ll be missing tea time? Orders or vacation?”
Tempest snorted. And thought. Thought about how it’d look on her record, being ordered to have holiday cheer and be neighborly to Equestria’s allies by the Princess. It’s nothing if not embarrassing.
“Fine,” she grunted. “Sign the leave papers. I’ll go of my own free will.” As Twilight grinned and inked a quill, Tempest muttered, “I just hope it’s not a mistake of my own free will either.”
Just like that. Twilight signed the papers, and Tempest was made a free mare for two weeks. The armory took her armor for safe-keeping. She told Twilight to have a quick word with Pvt. Hilt’s commander and to bid farewell and happy holidays to the Captain and the Corporal on her behalf.
“And before you go,” Twilight said, just as Tempest and Pharynx were about to leave the castle. Her horn lit up, and a flat box with a pink ribbon bow and wine-red gift wrapping appeared out of thin air. “Happy Hearth’s Warming Eve, Tempest.”
Tempest took the box into her teal magic, tugging on the strands of the bow as gently as her handicapped magic could. The bow unfurled and landed on the ground, the wrapping soon with it, and a bare white box was left in their wake. Tempest pulled the box apart.
Inside was a sweater. Soft, thick, warm, like a faceful of sunshine. It was a simple, flat charcoal-gray color.
“Thank…you…?” Tempest said, cocking an eye at the Princess. “Why does it feel so…”
“Warm?” Twilight giggled. “Celestia took up knitting when she went to Silver Shoals, so I asked her to make something for you. I know you don’t have much in civilian clothing. I was going to wait, but seeing how you will be gone for Hearth’s Warming, I figured you’ll probably need it.”
Tempest levitated the sweater up and pulled it over her head. A fuzzy, cozy feeling enveloped whatever the wool touched. She looked at herself, then at Pharynx and Twilight. “How do I look?”
“Terrible,” Pharynx said. “Gray looks boring on you.”
Tempest looked at the changeling in disbelief and then back at Twilight, who laughed softly.
“I think it suits you.” The Princess’s horn lit up again, and the box and gift wrapping disappeared. “I’ve ordered a pegasi chariot to take you to the outskirts of the changeling’s hive. It’ll be faster than walking.”
Tempest nodded absentmindedly and then lowered herself into a proper bow. “Thank you, Princess. And happy Hearth’s Warming Eve.”
“Just…have fun, Tempest. That’s all that I ask of you. And please, give Thorax my regards.”
As the chariot fell from the sky, Tempest was surprised to see green. Grass, moss, and trees that were just as vibrant and lively as they would be in spring. It was far warmer—though a chilly breeze still made the sweater a blessing—than Canterlot and the skies above the clouds. The hive itself jutted out of the valley with an imposing presence a fair distance away.
The pegasi driving the chariot landed on a mossy cliff away from the changeling hive, and Pharynx, having chosen to fly himself, fluttered down beside it. Tempest stepped off the chariot and thanked the drivers, who then flew off without a word.
“Well,” Pharynx began, “welcome to home.” He hadn’t said much on the ride there. Not like Tempest could hear him in the wind anyway.
“It’s a lot less…white, than I expected,” Tempest observed.
“Heh, yeah. It doesn’t get too cold down here.” His wings buzzed and he floated down the short cliff and onto a trail snaking through the hills. Tempest followed, in a way, hopping down to a section jutting out only a short distance, and then down another few feet, again and again, until she had caught up with Pharynx.
“I didn’t know that changelings celebrated Hearth’s Warming.”
“We didn’t used to.” Pharynx’s wings buzzed again as he and Tempest started down the trail. “But when everyone and everything changed, Thorax wanted the hive to be friendlier and do pony-like things. So he asked Princess Twilight for help on how to celebrate Hearth’s Warming and other pony holidays.”
“Did you have your own holidays?”
“Bah, no. Only time of the year we rejoiced was the holiday you have…er, with the hearts?”
Tempest thought. “Hearts and Hooves Day?”
“Yeah. Heh.” There was a sad yet nostalgic grin on the changeling’s face—and the first time he expressed anything other annoyance or neutrality. “It was practically a feast for us, with all the love swarming Equestria. Made infiltration easier, too.” And the nostalgia was gone. “Now we just make paper hearts and sing pop music Ocellus brought to the hive.”
“Sounds like you preferred the old ways.”
Pharynx blew out a dismissive breath. “Some things were better back then. Some…weren’t.”
“Time is bittersweet that way.”
Pharynx grunted in agreement. “What about you? From what Princess Twilight said, you weren’t much of a holiday pony either.”
“I’m not. Even from before I joined the guard. And things…stopped being fun when I was filly.” She shrugged. “Hearth’s Warming, especially, I’ve never been particularly fond of.”
“Heh, what happened, get attacked by an ursa minor or something?” Pharynx asked, cocking his head at the mare while also cracking a smile.
Teal sparks crackled from Tempest’s horn, as she gravely uttered, “Yes.”
The smile on Pharynx’s face vanished, replacing the neutral expression on his face. “Oh,” he muttered. Neither said anything after that.
They soon reached the hive, and Tempest was surprised. Colorful ornaments were strung up by the hundreds, spiraling around the spires of the hive, and were still being hung by changelings. The ornaments themselves were unique, but amateur-made. They were covered in so much silver and gold glitter it was practically snowing. Some still dripped with glue. And a notable amount weren’t spheres; they were in the vague shape of a changeling, each painted in an array of colors.
Instead of putting up blinking red-and-green lights on one’s house, Tempest guessed this was the next best thing for them.
“Oh, Pharynx, there you are!” came a voice Tempest recognized as she and Pharynx passed the gate to the hive. They turned their heads to see Thorax buzzing over to them from above and landed near them. “And uh, Lieutenant…Fizzlepop, was it?”
Tempest’s jaw clenched. “Tempest…” she growled. “It’s Lieutenant Tempest.”
“Oh, right, sorry, very sorry,” Thorax chuckled. He started coughing a blatantly fake cough, the kind ponies do when they’re choking on their own embarrassment. “Anywho, why are you here?”
“I am Princess—”
“Well, well, guess we’ll be having a pony guest for the holidays.”
The voice was sassy, but good-natured. The three looked above to see a slim blue dragon resting on the archway over the hive entrance. Lying across her lap was a scepter adorned with a blood-red gem.
“Ember! You made it!” Thorax cheered, his wings buzzing in excitement.
“’Course I did,” Dragon Lord Ember said. Her wings flared and she floated down to the trio, throwing up some dust in the wake of her landing. The arm holding the Bloodstone Scepter wrapped around Thorax’s neck, bringing him in close, while the knuckles of the empty claw roughly scraped against Thorax’s head and frills. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Despite the treatment, Thorax grinned and giggled in the arm of the Dragon Lord. “And it wouldn’t be the same without you.” As he pulled away, he looked up and around. “Where are the others?”
“Oh, right.” The claw that was delivering the noogie to Thorax was brought up to Ember’s mouth, pressing the digits to her lips, and a mighty whistle blew.
Tempest’s jaw dropped. The thunder of a thousand beating wings filled the air, and a sea of dragons crowded the sky. They all flowed in, settling in alongside the changelings in places, some aiding with the ornaments. From behind her, Tempest heard a light bluish-green changeling shout, “Smolder!” and flew overhead to barrel into an orange dragon. They embraced either tightly, until the small changeling planted a kiss on the dragon’s cheek.
For some reason, that made Tempest want to laugh; of all the things she’s seen or would expect to see, a changeling and a dragon sharing that kind of affection wasn’t on either list. It just put into perspective how much has changed in these years, and the great contrast between that moment and six or seven years ago made her want to snicker and chortle.
And maybe, she thought, they were all better off for it.
The couple flew off somewhere, and Tempest was brought back as a hoof jabbed her in the shoulder.
“Hey, you okay?” Pharynx asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just realizing what a world we live in now.” She cleared her throat, turning to Thorax and Ember. “So, what’s the plan? How do changelings, and dragons, celebrate Hearth’s Warming together?”
“We do a bunch of different things,” Thorax said, “and it changes from year to year. We know ponies only celebrate on one particular day, but we usually do a myriad of things across a few days. Today, since the dragons are joining us, we’ll be having the Holly Feast and Feast of Fire together.”
Tempest tilted her head. “The what and what?”
“The Holly Feast is something the Crystal Empire does. We all sit down for dinner, and while we eat, an enchanted piece of holly magically floats around the table, reading the feelings, intimacy, and connections between everyone at the table. And when it senses two ponies that have a possible connection, it’ll float over to them and dangle over them, and cue them to show an expression, usually a kiss.”
“And The Feast of Fire is an ages-old dragon competition,” Ember added, leaning on Thorax’s back. “One at a time, we take turns telling stories, and whoever has the best story wins all the gems!”
“And then you eat?” Tempest asked.
“Well, whoever’s story won does. The rest just get to watch.”
Tempest was taken aback by that, mournfully muttering, “Oh.”
“If you want to in the meantime,” Thorax said, “you can head over to the arts and crafts section of the hive and make an ornament to hang up. I know someone, not naming any names,didn’t make one his yet this year.”
Pharynx groaned, throwing his head back. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, Pharynx. It’s this year’s tradition. And I would like to have everyone’s up this year.”
“The dragon’s don’t have to do them!”
“Aaaaactually, we made and brought our own this year,” Ember corrected. She produced from her claw a cut sapphire in the shape of her face’s front profile, tied up with a string. “Or at least, those of us that didn’t eat them and had to make ones out of pumice.” She pulled Thorax into another affectionate noogie before darting off to hang her ornament.
Thorax watched her go for a second, then turned to Pharynx, who gave an “Ugh,” and started walking toward the area for arts and crafts.
“Can you go with him, keep him company?” Thorax asked.
“Alright,” Tempest said. Thorax nodded to her before flying off toward Ember. Tempest turned and trotted.
There was a group of changelings and, surprising Tempest, copious amounts of glitter, glue, paint, and thick, colorful construction paper. Little rocks were set up like makeshift tables and workbenches. Each of those were decked out with layers of glue and glitter, and on one Tempest thought crayons were melted to it.
Pharynx had plopped down at a table far away from any other changelings, and one of his hivemates brought him over craft materials. By the time that Tempest got to him, he had already thrown—literally—together a mess of paste and tiny red, green, and silver stars on snowflake-shaped foam.
“Done!” he declared, jumped up, and just as quickly bumped into Tempest.
Tempest gave him a look. It’s the kind of look a rookie gets when she or he says “Ready, ma’am!” in loose barding and unpolished armor. It usually instills a fear of reprimand into them, and those that don't get to scrub the latrine with their toothbrush.
But this was no rookie, and her air of authority mattered to Pharynx as much as a cirrus cloud would to a pegasus. He just shrugged, a brow raised (he had them). “What?”
“Come on, really?” Tempest took the decoration in her grasp. “Is that all you got? This isn’t even fit for a Breezie.”
“What are you, my hive-mother?”
“No,” Tempest said, circling the changeling. “But I can do much better.” She dropped the decoration onto the table and levitated a few supplies and a piece of yellow construction paper. She took a seat while her magic, shaky but effective, cut the paper into a perfect star.
Magic is like a muscle, Twilight had said years ago. If it is injured and unused for a long period of time, it grows weak. Grows unreliable. It will dystrophy, like a muscle, unless you exercise it. It took a long time for Tempest’s magic to be anything more than a fireworks show, for it to be useful. But while she could once again lift things with an ethereal touch, the injuries to her horn had been too extensive at a formative age. She could no longer hold more than two items at a time without her head erupting with a migraine. Anything more complex than levitation was perpetually lost, and her precision was that of a ten-year-old’s.
She tried, however. She made do with what she could and what she had.
Pharynx peered over her shoulder, watching as she slowly, but surely, decorated the paper star. After ten minutes of silent work, she held it up, finished. It twinkled beautifully in the afternoon sunlight. One large star was in the middle, with three smaller stars, cut from the same sheet of construction paper, pasted to it. A fine dusting of glitter covered them, giving them their shine. Not enough to be gaudy, but also enough to shine brightly in the light.
Tempest held the ornament up in her magic, and turned around to face Pharynx. Smugly she asked, “Can you beat that?”
Pharynx harrumphed indignantly. “Easily.” He sat down beside Tempest, and levitated a new foam snowflake. Instead of sloppy and uncaring, he was more deliberate than before. In as much time as Tempest, he held up a beautiful snowflake, much better than the sloppy joe of a snowflake that he had before. Different colored stars covered different spokes of the flake, and paste was used far more conservatively.
“How’s this?” he asked, not shying away from displaying the pride he had for it.
“Much better.” Tempest smirked. “Now, wasn’t that fun?”
“No,” Pharynx deadpanned at first, but then he looked away, as if in shame. “It was all right, I guess.”
The smirk sprouted into full smile, which itself caught Tempest by surprise. She hadn’t even been there an hour, and she was already having what she’d call a decent time. But then came a shrug internally; what’s done is done, as they say. At least she wasn’t having the complete miserable time that she would have expected.
A salmon-colored changeling fluttered down to them from one of the hive spires above them. “Hey, are you still making ornaments?”
Tempest nodded. “Yeah, we just finished ours, uh…”
“Name’s Shyntee! Do you want me to take them to hang for you?”
Both of them gave noncommittal answers and surrendered their ornaments to the changeling.
“Okie, I’ll get them right up!” And like that, the changeling known as Shyntee was gone.
There wasn’t much to do after making ornaments, but thankfully there wasn’t much dead time to endure. Thorax and the other changelings were satisfied with the results of the decorations, and Tempest had to agree—they were gorgeous, and brightened up an otherwise dull and mossy place.
Once that was sorted and done, dinner was made and tables were set. Tempest helped, adjusting the stone-carved flatware and leaves-and-silk dinner cloth. Pharynx was sent to help the cooks with preparing food. Meanwhile, Ember, with the aid of some other dragons, had started piling the gems for the prize of the Feast of Fire. Tempest gawked when the puny pile of pebbles became a—well—a dragon’s hoard.
Tempest was thankful when the dinner was announced to be done, tired of hearing her stomach whine and growl. Five massive tables, longer than any in the dining hall of Canterlot castle, filled a massive area inside the hive, poised to seat every changeling and dragon present, big or small.
And as everyone gathered, it proved to be enough. Thorax and Ember were seated at the head of the center table. Pharynx was seated next to him; and Tempest, next to Pharynx. Across from them the dragon and changeling couple Tempest saw earlier sat down. Once everyone found a place and settled in, changelings playing as servers brought out the food.
…Or at least, Tempest thought it was supposed to be food. It was nothing that a pony would cook and serve in a million years. Giant, plump grubs roasted and sliced like salmon, pill-bugs and centipede soups, and… rocks on fire. Bowls of rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls, and diamonds—how changelings even got them was beyond the mare—were strewn about the tables for dragons to grab and munch. The only green was a platter of moss.
Just before everyone could start eating, Thorax grabbed a stone plate and knocked on the table, drawing everyone’s attention. He coughed a little before speaking.
“Hello and welcome to the first day of our Hearth’s Warming holiday. I’d like to, uh, thank everyone for being here, especially Dragon Lord Ember and her dragons, who are our guests this year.” He gestured to the dragoness to his right. There was a ripple of applause among the feast. “And I’d like to thank Lieutenant Tempest of Princess Twilight’s Royal Guard for joining her on the Princess’s behalf. Hopefully next year we will have a grand party with a bunch of Canterlot ponies. Anyway, thank you for your company, and happy holidays, everyone!”
A roar of everybody—even the food, Tempest felt—shouting “Happy holidays,” boomed and shook the hive. And dinner was served.
Despite her achy, rumbly tummy, nothing was quite appetizing. Even the moss tasted watery and plain. She figured she’d just head outside of the hive and see if she could forage something herself after the feast.
Looking to her left didn’t ease her stomach, though. Pharynx was devouring wet grub roast animalistically. She had seen meat eaten before—Abyssians loved it—but somewhere the snot-green color that dripped from the bug meat here was nowhere near as disgusting. She sneered in contempt and turned away, drinking from the goblet next to her plate. At least the homemade wine was good.
Something above her floated, sparkly and fanciful, and her eye caught it. “What’s that?” she asked, nudging Pharynx.
The changeling grumbled around a mouthful and then swallowed. “That’s the magic holly or something, for the Holly Feast.”
The holly floated down gently, like a feather. It looked strange to Tempest, and she didn’t know why until it was almost in front of her face. Holly had red berries. Jagged, spiny leaves. The berries were white here, with soft, round leaves.
“That...isn't holly. That’s a mistletoe,” she observed.
Pharynx just shrugged at the misconception. “Not my problem.”
The Hearth’s Warming “holly” hovered above the table, moving behind her, slowly, over to a pair of changelings sitting together. It chirped in the voice of a lovebird. The pink aura it had pulsated to the rhythm of a heartbeat. Tempest felt it in her heart and only her heart. A funny, lurching feeling; one that often accompanies the butterflies in one’s stomach.
The couple giggled, one around a noodly worm in their mouth. The other leaned in, slurped at the squirming other end of the worm, and met their beloved in a sweet, sloppy kiss. Their changeling kin happily applauded, while dragons snickered and joked between each other.
Tempest just kind of felt sick at the idea of the worm.
The mistakened mistletoe then swam through the air to another two in love, dragons this time. One punched the other in the arm, who then reciprocated. Lazily, it made its way from lovers to lovers, inciting public displays of affection. It was rather cute, that much Tempest would agree upon. Sickeningly saccharine sweet, but…cute. It was at least fun to see the difference between changelings, who embraced it wholeheartedly, and dragons with their feelings hidden like a tortoise in its shell.
And then the mistletoe drifted over to the head of the center table.
The pulses were strong. It made Tempest’s head a little dizzy, and blood flooded her cheeks. The thing chirped louder, more beautifully, like it was singing. Gazing at the couple it had chosen, Tempest fought to hold back a bark of laughter.
The proud Dragon Lord, normally a cool blue, had flushed into a royal purple. She tried to feign ignorance and her eyes glazing over staring at something in the distance. But it was clear they weren’t anywhere else but near.
The air was eerily quiet. Even the wind was holding its breath.
What came next was definitely befitting of a king. What it wasn’t, was befitting of Thorax. With no words of warning, he wrapped a hoof around Ember’s neck, and in one smooth motion, pulled her in close while simultaneously planting the loudest, wettest smack of a kiss on her cheek.
The tables roared. In laughter and applause. Ember’s face flushed more as she tried to hide from the crowd with one claw, and playfully shoving Thorax with the other.
Satisfied, the mistletoe moved on, but not far. Tempest watched as it started in her direction. Slowly. And it stopped, in between her and Pharynx, and throbbed.
The throbbing was different. That much was clear. It felt like her heart was swelling, the heat in her cheeks grew hotter, almost searing. Her eyes became strained. Tempest turned to face away from whom she was paired with, and met hundreds of onlooking eyes, staring, waiting.
Then she looked back at Pharynx and saw what she assumed was a mirror of herself. While he wasn’t blushed—couldn’t even—there was a glow about him that radiated brightly in the dimming evening. He idly picked at some crawlies on his plate with a chopstick, ushering them around in a tour of his plate.
And that’s when the spectators started chanting.
“Kiss! Kiss!”
It started as a small rumble as the seconds passed before either did anything. And it blossomed as more changelings and dragons joined in.
“Kiss! Kiss!”
“No, no, no!” Tempest tried to tell them. But they drowned her out.
“KISS! KISS!”
Even Thorax chanted and encouraged. Even Ember, still blushing furiously from minutes ago.
The swelling in Tempest’s chest worsened, to almost painful degrees. She didn’t want to, and it was more evident that the mystical mistletoe wasn’t departing until something.
Growling, she shouted, “Fine!” and threw her hooves into the air in defeat. And taking a page from the changeling king’s book, she just went for it. Dove in, recklessly, like she was charging in to conquer an army. And right as she went for it, Pharynx turned to her.
It was meant to be a simple peck on the cheek, but it went awry. Pharynx got the mumble of a “Wha—” before her mouth caught his to a chorus of whistles and cheers.
That day she made the personal scientific discovery that despite the exoskeleton they had, a changeling’s lips were pretty soft.
Tempest and Pharynx came apart as fast as they came together in shock. Pharynx muttered something in annoyance. Tempest sighed in relief, hoping that the curse was sated.
The mistletoe pulsed once more, and left, soaring off to pester other poor saps. And Tempest was happy that the expectant eyes lost interest.
“Real smooth, you two,” Thorax said, smiling at them. “Especially you, big brother.”
“Shut up,” Pharynx sneered, tossing a piece of food at him. The chocolate-coated locust bounced against Thorax’s head.
“It’s a good thing you two did it. Princess Cadance said that if you don’t, after a while the holly will make your heart explode in your chest.”
Tempest’s pupils shrunk at the news. “Is…is that true?”
Thorax just shrugged and popped the locust into his mouth.
An hour had passed, and the sky darkened severely. Stars were coming out to join the feast, which was just finishing up for most. Tempest’s chatter, or comfort with participating, increased as the closer the sun became to the horizon.
Dragons and changelings that finished early began building two piles of old wood on the opposite end of the head of the tables, in front of the gargantuan tower of gems.
“Oh, finally!” Ember squealed in excitement. “It’s time for the Feast of Fire.”
Tempest laughed. “Dinner then show, huh?”
“You gave us all a show earlier, so consider this the second act,” Thorax replied.
The mare pouted, feeling heat rush back to her face.
With a loud fwoosh, the kindling piles were lit up by one of the dragons. It first started as a green flame, but turned orange once the wood ignited and burned on its own. Light was granted, and the fires radiated warmth that battled the encroaching winter chill. A tall, scarlet dragon with a massive underbite flew over and landed in between the pyres.
“Welcome all to this year’s Feast of Fire,” the dragon announced, spitting flame with every “f” that spilled from his mouth. “Anybody who thinks they’ve got the masterpiece story of the year and can win this magnificent pile of gems, step right up! Dragon or changeling! Now who’s first?”
About a dozen claws or hooves—mostly claws—reached into the air. The dragon called on one, and stepped down as another dragon came up to the “stage.”
As Tempest listened, she decided the story the dragon told was awful. Not the kind of awful you’d find in bit-store dregs of literature. The moral was repugnant, and it left a terrible feeling in her stomach. Everyone clapped when he was done, and Tempest could only imagine it was out of respect.
One by one, dragons and changelings came up to tell their favorite fables, either their own or something retold. Changeling stories were more cheery in their nature, and offered a nice break in the dragons’ cynicism.
Tempest felt a nudge in her side. She glanced at Pharynx, who was casually munching something both gooey and crunchy.
“Hey, you should go up there and tell a story.”
Tempest humored him with a laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, no. I don’t think I will.”
“Oh come on, I know you ponies have all kinds of stories. Especially a guard. Bet you could win, easy.”
Tempest gave some thought on it; the dragons liked sad stories with a bad end. They like humility and softness being crushed and defeated.
Well, I do have a story like that, she thought to herself.
When the current storyteller finished, she raised her hoof to volunteer. The dragon pointed to her. “Well, hey, looks like the puny pony guest seems to want to have a go! Then step up and show us mighty dragons what you got!”
Tempest stood up and trotted over. Now she had to, out of pride and spite.
Standing between the roaring fires, Tempest retold an old tale that she hadn’t been recited in years. A sad little story, about a smiling unicorn filly playing with her friends where they shouldn’t have been. And how it all fell apart as ventured into a cave encountered an ursa minor, big as ferocious as they come. And egotism was confused for bravery, and the unicorn suffered a grave strike, leaving her scarred in several different ways. Left her without a horn, friends, or the safety of home.
When she finished she was almost in tears. Things were better. She had to remind herself that.
The clapping and stomping were slow and sputtering, but they gained traction until Tempest could feel the rumble through the floor. It was more than an She bowed and stepped aside as the dragon approached her.
“Alright,” he said, frowning. “I think that’s pretty conclusive. So unless anyone else wants to try, the pony wins.”
No one stood. No one raised a claw or hoof or wing.
“That says it all,” the dragon declared. He held up a claw, gesturing to the pile of gems behind the fire. “Alright, she’s all yours.”
Tempest looked up at, towering, glimmering in the face of the fires. The question of what she was going to do with them was pushed aside by another: how was she going to get them home?
“Hey, nice going,” said Pharynx. She looked back to see him walking up to her. “Showed up the dragons. Must be proud.”
“Sure. Pride is…definitely, something I’m feeling right now,” she lied.
“By the way, Thorax wanted to know if there were any pony traditions that you did that you wanted to share.”
Tempest shook her head. “I haven’t done anything special for Hearth’s Warming since I was a filly. Running away from home doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for tradition.”
Pharynx thought for a moment. “What about when you were a filly? Didn’t you do something then?”
Tempest shook her head. “Orphanages don’t quite…well, there was a thing we always did.”
“What?”
“Every year we’d all take a photo together. It was usually meant to be something flashy for charities and fundraisers, but my old friends and I, we always loved it. Made us feel like a family.”
“Oh. We can do that.”
Tempest rolled her eyes. “What, does one of you have a camera?”
“Yes. Hey, Omma!” Pharynx buzzed over to another changeling, and Tempest followed, out of curiosity. “Omma!”
Omma was a changeling of average height, deep blue, like the sea. She was chatting with some others by the fires that were built while the night was settling in and turned around as Pharynx called to her. “Yes?”
“Hey, you brought your camera with you, right?”
“I did, why?”
“Tempest here told me about a thing she did, where she took a huge photo with her whole hive. Think we can do that?”
Omma scratched her chin. “I don’t know. There’s far too many in the hive—especially with the dragons—to do one with everyone. And the low light would just—”
“How about one with just us two, then?”
Tempest blinked. She hadn’t known Pharynx for even a day, and despite the accidental kiss and fun they’ve had since, he never once struck her as the sentimental type.
Tempest began, “It’s alright, I—”
“Sure, we can do that! Let me get my camera!”
As Omma left, Pharynx turned around to face Tempest, who had confusion written on her face. “What?” He shrugged. “Consider it a souvenir.”
“And I know you’re not someone who believes souvenirs,” Tempest stated.
“So? Just because I think it’s dumb doesn’t mean I won’t accomadate.”
Omma returned quickly, with an old, blocky camera box on a tripod. She directed them to a spot where the fire would illuminate their front as much as their back and set up her camera. Tempest and Pharynx were standing a body’s width away from each other when the changeling ducked beneath the cloth.
“What are you two, a couple of awkward lovers? Scootch together a little more. A liiiittlemore. Perfect!”
Tempest and Pharynx were now pressing their bodies together. Even though most of her barrel was wrapped in the sweater from Twilight, she could still feel the smoothness of Pharynx's body.
“That sweater you have is really warm,” Pharynx stated, muted. Tempest chuckled.
Omma held up the powder. “Alright, you two, say ‘Happy Hearth’s Warming!’”
The two chorused the phrase, half-heartedly, but couldn’t help to smile nonetheless. There was a flash and the snap of a shutter.
Omma retreated from under the curtain of the camera. “Okay, that should do it. I’ll get this developed for you two before you leave, Tempest.”
Tempest nodded, thanking the changeling. Omma packed up her camera and flew off, and Thorax trotted up to them.
“Hey, you two, what are you doing?” he asked casually.
“Pharynx said you were interested in what I did for Hearth’s Warming, and a picture of my orphanage was usually what I did as a filly.”
“Oh, that sounds fun!” Thorax answered with a smile. “I know Omma has been studying photography. It’d be fun to get photos of the hive every year.” The changeling king frowned. “But, uh, I didn’t plan to ask until tomorrow if you had anything you were wanting to do.”
Mouth agape, Tempest around to Pharynx. He was pawing at the smokey blue dirt of the hive. He lifted up his head, tilted it at them. Innocently, he asked, “What?”
The only thing Tempest thought to do was smile, genuinely, and punch the changeling in the shoulder with a laugh.
